


Russian Roulette

by minavagante (prouvairing)



Series: oh partisan, take me away [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Italy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Don Matte AU, F/M, Gen, Generally Unsafe Behavior, Italian Character(s), Les Amis On Scooters, M/M, Motorcycles, Speeding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairing/pseuds/minavagante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>When the light turns green, they all buzz off like a swarm of bees, weaving through the cars like they own the road.</i><br/> </p><p>Or, when the Amis go out at night, all of Gubbio shivers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Russian Roulette

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Roulette Russa](https://archiveofourown.org/works/917782) by [minavagante (prouvairing)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairing/pseuds/minavagante). 



> I think someone once asked for a fic where a terrified Enjolras clings to Grantaire on a motorcycle.  
> It was really funny to me 'cause this fic was written MONTHS ago and does exactly that. Too bad it was in Italian.  
> WELL NOW YOU HAVE IT, SATISFIED?  
> Oh, the headcanons were born in a conversation with [Gra](http://granspooky.tumblr.com/) who's an actual punk rock ray of sunshine

It’s the crackling sound of scooters that warns Cosette of the others’ arrival. Eponine’s text is basically superfluous.

**Eponine (19.34):** _o rapunzel let down that braid, will ya?_

**Cosette (19.35):** _Make any more noise and Myriel will come down, not my braid!_

Cosette has been ready for half an hour, her hair combed (uselessly: with the helmet and the wind it’ll end up looking like a haystack), her make-up perfectly done and her jeans long even though it’s August (lest they fall and she has to explain the gashes on her legs to Valjean). It’s absurd that, at her age, she still has to sneak around like a fourteen-year-old, but so it is. Valjean has been unmovable, on the subject: “Riding scooters is like playing Russian Roulette!” – he’d say – “Have you seen the statistics? Every time your friends go out, it’s a miracle they all come back alive!”

Fantine hadn’t seemed so convinced, and that’s why Cosette is almost sure that she is just pretending not to hear the growl of scooters. Officially, tonight, Cosette is taking public transport with Marius and Eponine.

She grabs her purse and hops down the stairs, phone still in hand, and she texts Feuilly quickly:

**Cosette (19.37):** _They’re here! See you in the parking lot?_

She knocks twice on Fantine’s door, to let her know she’s going out. The old ladies and Myriel are already asleep, and no one wants to risk waking them. Therefore, Cosette sneaks out silently, and finds Eponine and Musichetta, with their _Liberty_ scooters, waiting for her in the parking lot – just out of sight of her windows. Bossuet is there too, and he waves at her, his other arm around his girlfriend’s shoulders.

“Everything in check?” asks Eponine, handing her the extra helmet.

“Yes, they didn’t hear anything… a miracle!” Cosette answers, but her irritation is already fading. “We need to plan this better. Next time you wait for me at the corner of the street, and I’ll catch up with you on my bike.”

Eponine nods mechanically, then mounts her scooter, followed by Musichetta and Bossuet, who wraps his arms around her waist.

“Hop on, princess!” orders Eponine, and Cosette doesn’t need to be told twice. “Thank you kindly, my valiant knight,” she replies, and then adds: “Feuilly should catch up with us…”

The aforementioned Feuilly chooses that moment to swoop in, wave _hello_ without even stopping and shout at them: “LAST ONE TO JOLY’S HOUSE IS A BONAPARTIST!”

And with such a threat, the four of them can do nothing but hit the gas and try to catch up.

 *

“No, Enjolras, you cannot ride your bike all the way downtown! It’s too far!” Combeferre tells him, exasperated.

Enjolras folds his arms, with a stubborn scowl that says, _Wanna bet?_

“Then I’ll take the bus,” he replies, ignoring Courfeyrac’s amused snort.

“It’ll take you hours! Come on, Enj, on the scooter it’s ten minutes, tops…”

“It’s dangerous,” Enjolras reiterates, and frowns even more. “Not to mention it isn’t eco-friendly. Come on, Combeferre, I shouldn’t have to explain this to _you_ …”

“We wouldn’t be having this problem if someone finally decided to get a license,” Courfeyrac mutters, peacefully playing Angry Birds on Combeferre’s phone.

“Plus, I’m sorry,” Enjolras soldiers on, relentless. “It’s not even a question: there’s no space. You’re taking Courf, the others are all occupied…”

“Bahorel isn’t,” says Combeferre, but Courfeyrac contradicts him: “No, see, he’s already gone, along with the others. Basically, we’re the only ones left… well, us and R.”

“What?!” Enjolras exclaims, and his voice is least two octaves higher. Combeferre sighs, pained.

And sure enough, Grantaire appears around the corner just then, the roar of his motorbike preceding him. He stops at their side in all his 250 glory and pushes up the visor of his full face helmet. “A little bird told me you need a ride, Apollo!” Grantaire exclaims cheerily, his blue eyes winking through the visor.

“No,” Enjolras says – and it’s hard to tell which is redder, his face or his shirt. “I’ll walk.”

 *

Grantaire is more or less sure that Enjolras has been a koala in a past life.

Because otherwise he can’t explain the iron grip the other has on his waist, face hidden in his shoulder and legs squeezing his hips like a vise.

One thing’s sure: there is no space for the Holy Spirit, between them.

And he still isn’t sure whether he should curse or thank all the saints in heaven profusely.

Grantaire – because, deep down, he likes to be a pain in the ass – takes turns like he’s in the Grand Prix, his knee almost brushing the asphalt. If Javert happened to pass by, he’d have a heart attack. At each turn, he hears Enjolras screech and hold him tighter, then shout obscenities in Sicilian in his ear (of which, thank God, Grantaire doesn’t get a word).

It’s when they reach a stretch of straight road that everything changes. The bike roars, as Grantaire steps on the gas and lets out a liberating howl. He feels Enjolras jump and shake behind him, but he doesn’t believe it until he hears the sound, barely perceptible beneath the wind. Laughter.

Enjolras _laughs_.

And so Grantaire, too, bursts out laughing and floors it (the speed limit is now dead and forgotten), and he just can’t stop smiling.

 *

They reach les Amis somewhere downtown, and they greet the low rumbling of Grantaire’s bike with a cheer.

Gubbio, once again, is invaded by the oratory kids on scooters.

At the red light, they shout at each other, jokes and bits of debates from yesterday’s meeting, bets and plans for the night. Eponine blows Grantaire a kiss, Cosette reaches out to hold Marius’ hand, Bahorel drives just a little too close to Feuilly for safety, Musichetta and Bossuet lean over to soothe Joly, who’s strangling Feuilly’s waist (sharing in full Enjolras’ worry for motorcycles), as Combeferre and Courfeyrac give more precise directions to Jehan.

When the light finally turns green, they all buzz off like a swarm of bees, weaving through the cars like they own the road.

And if Javert tries to stop them for speeding, it’s enough for Cosette to appear behind Eponine’s shoulder, and he falls back and mutters, “Well, I’ll let it slide this time… but don’t do it again!” before he leaves in a hurry.

“What’s wrong with him?” Eponine asks once they’re off again, shouting to make herself heard. Cosette bends forward to answer, “I think he’s got a crush on Papa. Do you think he’ll tell him he saw me with you?”

Eponine can only shrug her shoulders. “Dunno. For you, I hope not.”

Cosette sighs. Les Amis dart beside her, laughing, each looking for a spot to park.

“Someone needs to get a damned license.”

Foolish hope.

 *

When they finally park, Enjolras hops off, staggering, and pulls off his helmet. His hair, usually falling in soft, orderly waves, is a cloud of golden knots, making him look like a lion. In contrast, Grantaire’s dark curls are wild, yes, but not more than usual.

Enjolras _doesn’t_ have the urge to run his fingers through it and fix it. Of course.

He feels heat crawl up his neck, and Grantaire is avoiding his eyes, too, his face bright red. Enjolras would rather not think about how he’s made a fool of himself, about how he clung to him, about the high-pitched screeching he did, about Grantaire’s abs shifting under his fingers at every turn–

No.

 _Of course_ he doesn’t think about it.

“You’re a public menace,” he says instead, and hands him the helmet briskly. Grantaire finally looks at him, and even has the gall to chuckle. Enjolras pouts stubbornly, even though the memory of the adrenaline burning in his belly, of Grantaire’s howls and their laughter on that last stretch almost makes him smile. “Anyway, thanks.”

Grantaire’s grin widens, as he grabs Enjolras’ helmet. “ _De rien_. Anytime you want, Apollo.”

The combination of French and of Grantaire fluidly hopping off the bike may just, once and for all, make poor Enjolras explode.

Then Courfeyrac unexpectedly comes to his rescue, hooking an arm around his neck, as the rest of les Amis flock around them. “Well, are we going? These pizzas are not gonna eat themselves!”

It's a hard choice, that between cursing and thanking heaven.

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm translating straight from the original notes since they seem relevant:
> 
> Why does none of the Amis have a driver's license yet? BECAUSE BUSTING THE BALLS OF ALL OF GUBBIO IS MORE FUN. Plus I'd have to do math to figure out who's of age, in this, and who isn't, and I don't feel like it. Let's assume R and Bahorel are. Then those two love their motorcycles, you know (Bahorel has a serious one, even better than R's, since he's had to buy it himself 'cause his father NEVER would have bought it for him).  
> (The respective boyfriends/soon-to-be-boyfriends also secretly love the motorcycles)  
> Ok, I've talked too much.  
> Serena out~
> 
> P.S. Ah, the russian roulette line has no-but-seriously been said by my aunt, who hates scooters. My brother, since then, has been making fun of her, and in our household scooters are a synonym of russian roulette. And now they've ended up in a fic.


End file.
